


Of Royalty and Revelry

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Minor Character Death, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: Prince Roman fancies a newcomer, who isn’t too quick to speak up about their own opinion on the matter. Life lessons and begrudging companionships ensue.





	Of Royalty and Revelry

“I want that one,” Prince Roman murmured to the advisor, pointing a cursory finger at a hidden face in the crowd. Masquerade balls had always been a tradition in the kingdom, and while he couldn’t admit to loving the prospect of not knowing who his partners were, Prince Roman certainly enjoyed the intrigue. His eyes tracked every motion of the ‘one’ in question, as they swiveled from one partner to the next, their skirts flowing as the bodice of the dress clung in tight ribbons to their torso. They twirled faster and faster, never losing the sheep-shaped mask as they spun from rabbits to lions to tigers to crocodiles. Prince Roman leaned further over the banister, enthralled by the effortless motion. “Bring them to me, please.”

“As you wish,” the prince’s advisor replied, bowing low and sweeping into the masses. Prince Roman let a soft smile fall over his features, his hands dangling limp in the air as he waited for someone to place a glass in it. After what felt like hours to the young prince, he paraded out of the massive ballroom, his glittering chalice in hand.

Up the steps laid in red carpet and awash in his favorite flower—roses, of course, for romance—Prince Roman went, swaying his hips just right to attract the eye of everyone he left behind. Lords and ladies and fellow court-comers alike turned to watch, hiding their whispers behind perfectly manicured hands outfitted with gaudy gemstones. Let them whisper. They didn’t know what Prince Roman could do, should he decide to grace them with his gaze. He could demolish them with something so little as a flick of his wrist. He could end lives and bring kingdoms to their knees.

With this in mind, it truly was a remarkable offense that the advisor hadn’t returned with his chosen dancer yet. They shouldn’t have needed too much convincing, after all—what soul could possibly refuse the temptation of royalty? The royalty of Prince Roman, no less, not to mention everything he had to offer. His perfectly flipped brown hair, his soft eyes that could melt steel if he wished it, his endless line of wardrobe options, his impeccable personality, and that’s just the prince himself. Add in the private room he’d moved into, with its glowing chandeliers of diamond and glass, with its chaise lounges embedded with gold and rubies, with its constantly refilling supply of the finest beverages, and that’s not even counting the food. By Lo, the food alone would be the mightiest thing in all the land, were it not for Prince Roman showing it up.

Juicy duck roasted to a perfect red, drenched in glaze and arranged on a bed of lettuce and carrots, positively dripping in flavor. Barrels of clam chowder, warmed in the finest ovens the kingdom could muster, with ingredients found in the farthest lands, a reach stretching over every continent to ensure that only the best would dare touch the prince’s tongue. Dozen layer cakes, of red velvet and dark chocolate with every shade of cacao the world could provide and mint and white chocolate and pumpkin and explosions of every color that might exist on such short notice for one man alone to enjoy, until he could find someone to share it with.

“Finally,” Prince Roman said—he did not groan, much as he might like to, for that was not a princely thing to do. He sent away the advisor with a flick of his hand, leaving a room for hundreds filled with only two. “Indeed,” Prince Roman praised, his perfectly polished boots cracking on the marble floor. “I do not believe I have made a mistake in my decision.”

The newcomer remained silent, not lifting their hand to remove their mask, not even bowing in the face of such dangerous royalty. Prince Roman could have this person eliminated where they stood, if he so wished it. Perhaps this is why he did not order that—it was intriguing, at least, to have someone so unabashedly afraid of him, even if they might have been hiding their fear behind their mask. Not a terrible decision, though, as it allowed Prince Roman a chance to admire the ever-changing intricacies of the mask.

Magic was still new, a novelty of sorts, mostly used in fun and splendor. Not for fighting wars, not yet. Prince Roman leaned in, close enough to smell the tang of magic lifting off the mask. It swirled with clouds of white and silver, as sparks of purple puffed out to create the illusion of a sheep’s wool, dancing over this person’s skin. The clouds melted into rain as they met the neck of the dress, a violet rain that splashed over their shoulders like tesselating amethysts to end in fitted gloves, crawling up to their elbow in an ocean of black and plum. They folded their arms, evidently impatient with the prince as he drank in the sight for just a moment longer. How the ribbons wrapped around their torso seemed to squirm like eggplant eels, writhing around just enough to reveal chalky white skin—a common trait among possessors of magic, as they so rarely met with the sun. No, no, they preferred the moon’s cold embrace to the sun’s fiery passion. He didn’t want to admit as much so soon, but Prince Roman had a lingering feeling that his sun was about to meet another’s moon.

“What.” Prince Roman reeled as if he’d been slapped, quite taken aback by such a forward and inconsiderate introduction. For all the splendor he’d deigned to share with this person, they couldn’t even manage a simple show of gratitude? At the very least, they should have dropped to their feet and kissed the floor upon which he walked, but Prince Roman was too preoccupied with their voice to notice the indignity. The way they rapped their tongue against the roof of their mouth, as if they had a personal vendetta against the twentieth letter of the alphabet. The way their mask hardly flinched as their mouth spat out the word. The way Prince Roman longed to hear more.

“I would have accepted more of an honorable approach, given my charitable decision to bring you into my good graces, but I have always been fond of a challenge,” the prince said, peering at the place in the mask where slits for eyes should be. Nothing so small as a hole through which to breathe stood out, but maybe that was the elixir he drank playing tricks on him. “Well, come on, then, off with it.” The prince prodded his index finger at the mask, staring at the shimmering residue in wonder as he drew his hand back. Recoiled, almost, as the mask seemed to freeze the very surface of his skin.

They pulled the face of a sheep down to reveal what would, at its most basic, be called a human face. The pale snow of their torso continued up their neck to crawl over their face, an ivory hue that the most talented artist in the kingdom could never hope to replicate. It matched the decor of their arms, the whiteness splintering away into a more olive tone around their eyes—the last bits of untouched skin that magic hadn’t worn away yet. Their eyes stared brazenly back at Prince Roman, not seeming to care that they shouldn’t be looking at royalty at all, let alone with direct eye contact. Oh, but how Prince Roman loved the audacity of it all, as it gave him the chance to soak up this person even more, take in their flashing indigo eyes, nearly wine purple in the flattering light of the private room.

“I don’t suppose you might have a name I could call you?” Prince Roman asked, lifting his wrist before their face. They looked down at it, back at the prince, and back to the hand, clearly not interested in kissing it. Odd.

“Why?” God, their  _ voice, _ Prince Roman could just listen to it forever. Like a storm’s early rains eroding the roughest surfaces of rocks on a riverbed, scraping away at his very core.

“Largely because your impeccable dancing and flawless attire caught my eye, but if you must have it put so crassly, it is in truth because I fancy you,” Prince Roman admitted. He flashed a sheepish smile, with a hint of arrogance to remind this person that he was, in fact, the one controlling the situation. “So again I will ask: What is your name?”

They cocked their head to the side, observing the prince for a long, hard moment. “Call me Ace. He and him.”

“Excellent!” Roman said—he didn’t exclaim it, though, as that would not be princely. “Well, Ace, I feel this might be a good chance to get to know you better, as I will have you staying by my side for the time being. What might be the circumstances that brought you to me?”

Ace’s face didn’t change as he remained silent. Prince Roman waited with remarkable patience, as if he were coaxing a stray dog from a musty alleyway, before giving in and speaking first. “I truly don’t think it ought to be so difficult to inform me of who and what you are, given my boundless grace to bring you nearer to me. You ought be flattered, ought be falling to your knees for me, and yet here you stand, saying nothing, doing nothing. So now, Ace, I will ask, by order as Prince Roman, that you inform me of your reasons for attending, or I will have you executed as the main event of this party. The people expect a show, and I will not hesitate to make you that show, should it come to that.”

“Magic saps my strength. I speak little.” Ace kept his sentences short and clipped, somehow managing to move only his mouth as the rest of his face remained still.

“Fascinating,” Prince Roman murmured, leaning in close enough for their noses to touch. He took the mask from Ace’s stiff grip, straining to not show how cold it felt on his skin. “You simply must remain on my arm for the duration of this party, so I may show off my newest prize.” The prince allowed his hand to fall on Ace’s glove, trying to pull him by the elbow to the towering doors that separated them from everyone else.

Ace yanked his arm back, biceps straining and fists screwing. “Hands off.” Entirely nonplussed by this, Prince Roman raised his hands in a show of surrender and moved to the door.

“Well, come on, then. We have a world to impress out there.” Ace stalked past the prince, snatching his mask back on the way. He fastened it back over his face as a servant darted out, seemingly from nowhere, to open the doors for the prince and his chosen. “I do believe it’s high time we show you off.”

 

\-----------

 

First thing’s first, the name’s not Ace. It’s Virgil. He wasn’t about to tell the prince that, but whatever. He also wasn’t about to inform the prince about his backstory, as Roman seemed plenty content enough to make it up with every new partygoer they came across.

“Ace is my chosen partner for the night, and I do believe I’ve made the correct decision, hm?” Roman said to yet another group of yes-men, letting them admire Virgil’s silent demeanor. He would never say as much out loud, but Virgil knew damn well that they were only agreeing because Roman wanted them to, and if given the chance, would probably murder this ‘Ace.’

Virgil was very careful not to reach for what was hidden beneath the ribbons on his torso, reassuring himself that the presence of the weight alone was enough. Instead, he focused on not tripping over his flowing skirts as the sheep mask clouded his vision. It felt like every time he blinked, time skipped forward without rhyme or reason, ultimately culminating in the end of the night coming much too soon, while also nowhere near soon enough. There was still too much to be observed, noted, and remembered. Too much he wasn’t yet prepared for.

He made for the door with the rest of the crowd, only hesitating when he felt a hand on his arm. He whipped his head around, feeling the tips of his hair cut across the mask in the process. Roman stood with his hand hovering between them, that ridiculous faux-sheepish grin on his face. “I had hoped you might stay.” Virgil forced his hand to relax, forced his posture not to stiffen at the unwelcome physical contact.

“Why?” Truth be told, it was never the magic limiting Virgil’s speech, but the real reason was something he could never let the prince in on. The pompous fool probably wouldn’t realize the significance of it, anyway.

“Because I have the most power in the land, second only to the king, whom you should also meet tonight.” Roman—not Prince Roman, Virgil wasn’t about to blow his head up any more than necessary—extended his hand further, probably his first attempt at requesting consent to hold hands. Given that he grabbed Virgil’s hand without letting him meet halfway, he failed spectacularly. “Come along, I simply must introduce you to the king.”

Virgil lagged a few steps behind, more tugged along like a puppy on a leash than walking with the prince as an equal. The advisor that fetched him in the first place kept a respectful distance while following the pair. Virgil nearly slammed into Roman’s back when the prince stopped short, breathless from running through an innumerable amount of corridors and back halls and staircases.

“So it would appear,” the prince announced, spinning around to block the sign on the door, “that the king is not intent on seeing anyone. I suppose I’ll instead show you to your room, and we can attempt to meet with him tomorrow.”

This is how Virgil found himself alone in an impossibly large room, with the prince’s dashing smile lingering in his mind. With the advisor standing watch outside the room, Virgil took in every excessive detail to his heart’s content. The bed garbed in crimson that could easily fit five people with room to spare, nowhere close to touching each other, all while hidden behind shimmering pink curtains draped from the ceiling. No less than twenty pillows sat proudly against the headboard, trimmed in gold and textured with rose designs. The floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the entire far wall would probably feel welcoming and homey, were it not for the razor-sharp lines crisscrossing the surface—no escape would be had, should Virgil elect to attempt one. The blankets were far too soft, far too warm for his comfort, so he instead slid a pillowcase out from the walk-in closet and wardrobe—one of many, mind you—and crawled under the three-foot-high bed. He slid himself into the pillowcase like a too-small sleeping bag and fell asleep, with only the company of mothballs that had managed to avoid whatever servant had last swept through here. Well, also the company of the detached skirt from his dress, which he absolutely was not about to sleep in.

The first thing Virgil saw upon waking up was the advisor’s eyes peering at him through the narrow slit separating the dangling bedsheets from the floor. “Hello, Ace. Prince Roman has requested your presence in the dining hall. Have you any need of me, or can you make your own preparations for the meal?” Virgil held back the urge to wrinkle his nose—he’d always hated that last word, but whatever.

Rather than answer, he scooted out from under the bed, leaving the pillowcase where it was with the skirts of his dress. Hoisting up the black leggings he wore underneath and tightening the knots on his torso ribbons, Virgil followed the advisor out of the grand room.

“He wasn’t quite sure what you might prefer,” the advisor was explaining, “so he had the chefs prepare almost everything. Given that we are also experiencing a decrease in working servants in the castle as of late, I have been assigned as your personal assistant until a new one can be found and I may return to my position as the prince’s advisor.”

Virgil remained silent, trying to figure out how to condense a nine word sentence into two syllables. The advisor waited patiently as he deliberated. “Want that?”

“I, ah, I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you mean.” The advisor scratched the back of his neck, laughing softly. “Want to be your servant?” Virgil shook his head. “Want to—want to go back to being the prince’s advisor?” Virgil nodded, relieved that he’d finally met someone who could understand him for once. “That’s the funny thing about the job, I guess. I’m not really allowed to care either way. They took away my name so I couldn’t want to go back.” The advisor stopped in the middle of the hall, biting his lip. It might have been a bad move, but Virgil placed a hand on the advisor’s shoulder, trying to remind him he was there. The advisor shook his head and kept walking, letting Virgil catch up. “This is the dining hall.”

Virgil whirled around to nod his thanks before the door slammed shut, but all he caught was a glimpse of the advisor’s downturned face.

“I was starting to worry you wouldn’t show up,” came the prince’s voice. Flinching, Virgil turned back to see said prince with his arms proudly out as his sides between a seemingly endless display of food. A more cultured person might know what each dish was, but as far as Virgil could tell, there was definitely meat and there was definitely vegetables. He didn’t trust any of them as far as he could throw them. “I worried about what you might prefer, so I had the chefs do a little bit of everything. Are you really still wearing that mask? You can take it off, you know. I won’t hurt you.”

Virgil quirked his mouth doubtfully, more than a little thankful that the expression was hidden behind said mask. Regardless, he pulled it off to avoid being reprimanded, and tried hard not to shudder as the prince stared at his face with just as much intent as the previous night. “Too much,” he said, pointing to the spread of food, then to where he assumed the door to the kitchen was. At least, the only door that seemed to have a different type of flooring beyond it.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Roman said. “This was nothing, really, I simply had to request every item of food available for you. It was easy, no need to fret.” Virgil pointed more insistently at the kitchen door, shaking his head. “Too much for the cooks?” A grateful nod. “No, no, they aren’t eating this. It’s meant for you, it’s all for you!” Another shake of the head.

Exasperated, Virgil grabbed the two dishes closest to him and marched into what he thought was the kitchen. Roman followed behind, probably curious as Virgil scoped out the room for the smallest people. Four children ran between countertops, getting underfoot of people frantically cooking more food than they could handle. Perching on an empty countertop, Virgil beckoned the children closer and offered them the food on the plates.

“But we made that for you!” one kid exclaimed.

“For you and the prince!” another added.

“It was a lot of work!” said the third.

“Mom didn’t even get to sleep,” the fourth pitched in. Virgil shot a look at Roman, whose face was rapidly turning pink.

“I—I believe I see what you mean, now,” Roman murmured. Virgil rolled his eyes, leaving the plates with the children, who rapidly dug in once they were out of sight. In the main dining hall, Virgil grabbed more plates and jerked his head at the prince, who reluctantly did the same. As a pair, they headed through all the twisting halls of the castle to find the front doors—whether Virgil got lost after a few turns is not important.

Suffice it to say, the people living closest to the castle ate very well that morning.

“I won’t admit to understanding your motives,” Roman was saying as they headed back inside, arms empty and aching. “But public opinion seemed very positive today.”

Were Virgil the type of person to voice his thoughts, he might say something to the effect of ‘take a wild guess as to why that might be,’ but he wasn’t, so he didn’t. Instead, he flicked his fingers at a bed of flowers beyond the castle gate, watching them dance in the air on a wave of sparkling air. Roman’s eyes went as wide as the plates they had been carrying, and for just a moment, he looked less like a haughty prince and more like a little boy in a plastic crown. Virgil gave him a playful elbow in the side before realizing exactly what he’d done, and flinching away.

Roman fell silent before turning to Virgil with a fire in his eyes. “I need you to meet the king right away. I will not be delayed any longer.”

Through endless corridors the prince ran, Virgil following in silence. He didn’t even pant as his legs started aching, as the advisor kept perfect pace with them. As they arrived at the same doors as yesterday, the advisor swept ahead, pulling open the doors for them.

Virgil stalked into the room first, acknowledging the advisor with a nod. The advisor did not meet his eyes.

“What’s this person doing here? Why are you bothering me? Quickly, then,” the king said, looking positively bored out of his mind as he lounged on his massive blue throne. His crown appeared to be glued to his skull, guaranteed to never move from his head unless such should be willed.

“This is Ace,” Roman said, whacking his companion on the back to force him into a bow. “He’s my chosen fellow ruler, so you, uh, you can stop looking for another one. Your Highness.” Roman cleared his throat, his legs trembling as he kneeled. Virgil froze, about to reprimand the prince for assuming he’d want to be a ruler, but the king spoke again before he could.

“You expect me to take this spawn of magic into my home? Onto my throne?” The king leaned back, steepling his fingers together and sighing. “You must take me for some sort of fool.”

“No, no, that’s not it at all—” Roman spluttered, very obviously flustered. Virgil held his breath.

“What is my name?” the king demanded.

“King Logan, Your Highness, but I—”

“What. Is my name?”

“King Lo—”

“I am not asking you!” the king roared. “You infernal little prince, hold your tongue for so little as three seconds and prove to me you know how to be more than just a mediocre face in a silent crowd!” He turned his cursory gaze to Ace, his right eye twitching. “What is my name?”

“Actually, Ace doesn’t—” Roman shut up as the king stood, his hand going to the scabbard around his waist.

“You. Speak.” The room fell silent as Virgil looked up, meeting those burning eyes. “Well?”

Virgil flashed a grin, lifting his chin to the king. “No.”

 

\-----------

 

Prince Roman fell over himself apologizing as he yanked Ace out of the throne room. His advisor scurried to keep up, bowing low enough that the king probably saw his back beneath his ridden-up shirt.

“What were you thinking?” he berated, bracing Ace against a wall with an arm to the neck. Would Ace have attempted to speak, all that would have come out would have been choking sounds. “You do not get to speak to him like that! I do not get to speak to him like that! You behaved like an absolute fool, and I quite frankly ought to be throwing you into the streets if not an executioner’s chamber for such treason!”

“Please,” Ace spat, more of a whisper than a word. His face was rapidly turning blue as Prince Roman grew angrier.

“What does that even mean? Please kill you? Please let you speak to him like that? Please let you loose on the streets? Whichever you want, I can personally guarantee you won’t be getting!” Prince Roman finally wrenched his arm back, letting Ace fall to his knees and cough. The purple slowly drained from his skin as he gasped for air, pawing feebly at his throat. “Come on, Ace, can’t you talk? Got something smart to say? Want to kick me while I’m down because, oh no, I thought you were pretty?”

Ace heaved, forcing himself onto all fours before swiveling to lean his back against the wall. Although most of the blood had finally drained from his face, his neck still betrayed bruises to match the silhouette of Prince Roman’s hands. The prince hesitated, feeling shame wash over him as Ace flinched away. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to get hurt, and being a smart aleck to him isn’t going to help you, and that’s not a good excuse or apology, but I just, I really want you to stay, you know? I’m sorry. You can—you can just go, if that’s what you want. I won’t stop you.”

Finally quiet, finally filling his lungs with air again, Ace shook his head. Something seemed to click in his eyes as the prince kept pleading, kept apologizing. Maybe the fact that he’d finally seen the prince reduced to a blubbering mess, a little kid that just wants one person on his side. Prince Roman blinked hard, feeling arguably un-princely tears rolling down his face as he struggled to see why Ace was tugging on his sleeve. The prince rubbed a harsh hand over his eyes and looked.

In the air danced all manner of billowing curtains, ripped from the many windows lining the hall. They twirled and twisted with as much grace as Ace that first night, emitting sparkles of red and blue that melded into purple fireworks. Much as it made him feel like a child, Prince Roman found himself entranced by the display, and more so by Ace’s carelessly flicking fingers, which orchestrated every motion. Eventually, the fabric stilled, outlining crude letters to form words as Ace remained silent. Prince Roman squinted, trying to make sense of the crumpled shapes.

“Vir—juhl? Who’s Virgil?” Ace rolled his eyes and kicked at the prince’s shoe, pointing meaningfully at the curtains. “Oh. Oh! It’s you! Your name isn’t Ace?” Prince Roman flinched back to avoid another kick. “No, no, that’s perfectly alright! I like the name! But sincerely though, I am truly sorry for springing that on you. If you’ll still have me, I’d love a beauty such as yourself to accompany my reign.”

Ace—no, Virgil, his name was Virgil—twisted his lips to the side, making the shards of white on his face glisten in the light of the rising sun outside. After what felt like an eternity to the prince, he nodded.

“Oh, then we have so much to do!” Prince Roman exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “My coronation is coming up—that’s what the big ball was for, was that I didn’t have a fellow ruler—so we’ll need to get you outfitted for the ceremony and learning all the necessary information—although you won’t be saying anything, probably, so you might be able to skip that, and—” Virgil grinned to himself as he followed the still-rambling prince down the hall, the advisor scurrying along behind.

 

\-----------

 

“I like your real name. Virgil. Can’t say I’ve heard something like it before, but it does seem to suit you, frozen exterior and magic and all,” the advisor was saying, pulling a measuring tape snug around Virgil’s waist.

Virgil bit his lip, considering how best to approach the suddenly talkative advisor. “You hurt?”

“No, no, they didn’t hurt me. Truth be told, I requested to be your advisor once the coronation happens, as it’s much less stressful than being the prince’s advisor. Much less you can do to me if you don’t yell at me, and that was always the worst part. He would apologize, and he’s working on it, but I really think your example is serving to soften the prince’s character, you know?”

The advisor chattered away, flitting around Virgil and measuring things he never would have expected necessary. “Name?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose you might need that, as well. You might recall that they took away my name, and I don’t mean that literally, so much as that I haven’t been referred to as anything but ‘Advisor’ in the last seven or so years, so you know how it is. Even to myself, I haven’t really said much on the topic, but—oh! Look at me, getting off track again. My name’s Patton.”

“Pleasure,” Virgil confirmed, letting warmth seep into his voice as he offered the advisor—Patton—a handshake. “Friends?”

“Oh, I would from the bottom of my heart adore the idea!” Patton squealed. “However, I fear that you may not want to get too quickly attached. Anyone seen as a threat to the throne is promptly removed, and me being your ally won’t make me an excep—”

Patton stiffened, one hand on the small of Virgil’s back. Virgil inhaled.

“Virgil? What might these be?” Patton drew out a long, thin blade, concealed amongst the ribbons that Virgil had yet to remove. Where they were disturbed from losing what they held, the ribbons suctioned onto Virgil’s skin, clinging tight as if they were attached. “Don’t say anything. Don’t incriminate yourself. I’ll hide it, but I do not want to be involved in whatever scheme you might be planning.” Patton darted away and reappeared in an instant, the blade gone in a snap. “I think I’ve got all I need. Go on and see your prince, I believe he’s got a tour of the castle waiting for you.”

Virgil sprinted out the door before Patton could catch up, running straight into Roman’s arms and sagging as the prince caught him. “Well, hello there, future fellow king. King Virgil and King Roman, how does that sound? Of course, my name will probably go first. Alphabetically speaking, it just makes sense.” Roman planted a kiss on Virgil’s forehead before jolting, as if realizing exactly what he’d done. Virgil stuck out his tongue at the prince and got back to his own feet, following as Roman attempted to brush off the encounter and start whatever tour he had planned.

And, okay, maybe he snuggled up a little bit to the prince as they walked through the gardens, and maybe he had to hide his face when the prince commented on how Virgil’s eyes outshined the flowers, but that’s not important.

 

\-----------

 

“So by this power, I crown thee ‘King Roman.’ Wear it with pride,” the former-king Logan declared, letting his voice echo over the castle walls. The beam on Prince—make that King, thank you very much—Roman’s face hardly dimmed as Logan leaned in closer to hiss, “don’t screw it up.” The new king merely grinned brighter, readjusting the oversized crown on his head as it fell askew.

“Thank you, Father,” he said, revelling in the deliciousness of getting to refer to his own blood in a familiar sense, rather than a detached and official one. “I’ll do my best, with or without your help, and with Virgil by my side.” King Roman turned to his new partner in (technically preventing) crime, absolutely enamoured with the way his silver crown bounced light across his glowing white skin. Virgil cocked his head to the side before vanishing into the shadows with King Roman’s father.

“I’ll be waiting for you once you’ve delivered your speech,” Virgil murmured, giving the smallest bow he could stand to King Roman. The tiniest of grins danced over his face.

And so King Roman did. He riled up his subjects with shouts and cheers, then sedated them with promises of peace aplenty, and left them wondering how they’d ever gotten along without someone so competent as him. Virgil’s advisor smiled in the doorway as King Roman swept back into the castle, ready to find his partner.

Virgil’s advisor—Patton, as Virgil had informed the king—led him up the stairs from that fateful night of their first meeting, taking the scenic route to the throne room so King Roman could get rid of his jitters. He’d never sat on a real throne before, it was sure to be thrilling, not to mention surreal, all of which he decided to voice to Patton.

“It’s been years upon years of looking up at my father, reveling in luxury while others went with empty mouths, and now I have the power to decide whether someone will even get to sit on that throne at all, as well as how much swaying power they’ll have, and—oh, I’ve got it! We’ll build another throne next to mine—remind me to commission some struggling worker to design it and pay them a pretty penny, they’ll like that real well—and it can be purple and white to match my glorious king, and we’ll sit there every morning before running all around the castle to find who needs help and what assistance we can offer, and—”

King Roman froze at the entrance to the throne room, seeing Virgil’s back turned to him. Patton bowed meekly and darted away.

“What—what’s going on?” King Roman whispered, watching his father’s head tumble to the floor. Virgil stayed facing away from the king, shaking his head.

“Not you,” Virgil murmured, his hands going to his head. “Not you not you not you him not you not you not—” He whirled around to face the king, his words cut off as he clamped a hand over his mouth. Something in his eyes screamed, pleaded, ached, but his hand squeezed tighter, holding back whatever words he wanted to get out.

“What do you mean, not me? You never—what did you do, Virgil?” King Roman was begging, now, falling to his knees and staring at Virgil, unable to reconcile what he saw with what he thought to be true.

“This was always the plan,” Virgil whispered as his hand fell, looking at his own reflection in the blade he held. He turned it over, not bothering to comment on his sudden ability to speak full sentences. Not bothering to comment on what King Roman couldn’t possibly hope to understand. Not bothering to comment on the uncharacteristically red flash in his eyes. “It was supposed to be you. This wasn’t the plan.” Not bothering to comment on the cold steel of his voice. Not bothering to comment on his jerking motions, as if he were a puppet in tangled up strings.

“Which part?” King Roman demanded, spreading his fingers at his sides. “The part where you lied to me?” The young king furrowed his eyebrows, hating the gnashing ache in his throat, hated how weak he felt, how spineless, a downright fool that watched his own demise coming and did nothing to stop it, and for what? For a boy? For a lowly commoner that happened to look nice in a dress, happened to have magic? “Or the part where you let me believe it?”

“Whichever one ends with me getting out of here alive,” Virgil said. “Your heart was a casualty, and I won’t apologize for a crime that wasn’t my fault. You shouldn’t have gotten attached.” Virgil poked a finger at King Roman’s chest, forcing the king to stagger back on his haunches. “Did you really believe I loved you? Did you really think that ripping me away from home and locking me up in some fucking  _ castle _ would sate my pride? Would make me love you? News flash, but it doesn’t work that way. Just because I never gave you a reason for being here that first night, it doesn’t mean I didn’t have one. It just means it was a truth you wouldn’t have wanted to accept.” The words were coming out faster, spilling like a torrent of hate that no sword or sage could hold back. “Sorry to disappoint, your royal  _ fucking _ highness, but I don’t love you.”

Virgil spat on the ground as he moved for the exit, ignoring King Roman’s quivering form on the marble floor. Ignoring the steady drip of red from his own chest. Ignoring the matching crimson flames burning in his own eyes. Ignoring the feeling of fire crawling up his spine, begging to be extinguished.

"I never did."


End file.
